by Nina Mason
Maggie, like the queen, had conceived in September and was due to give birth in June—provided, of course, she carried to term. Given her history, the chances were good the pregnancy would end fruitlessly.
To improve the odds of success, Maggie made daily entreaties to the Virgin Mary and drank the womb-strengthening tonics prepared for her by Gemma Crosse, who was to serve as her midwife. Maggie also insisted Robert take her on a sojourn to the same Welsh shrine her father and Mary had visited, so that they, too, might ask for St. Winefride’s blessing.
Robert was more than happy to oblige, as he had grown weary of laboring in vain to open the king’s eyes to the dangers of his present course.
“Too often, I feel as if I am in a carriage careening between the two precipices of royal displeasure and royal ruin,” he told his wife during the long and jarring ride to the sacred spring, “and constantly in danger of driving over the edge of one or the other.”
They also discussed the widespread doubt about the queen’s pregnancy, which vexed Maggie greatly. “I daresay they will all know the truth when she gives birth,” she said, brow creased by distress, “for it is not as if the child is a fairy or a spirit one cannot see but must choose to believe in or not. There will be a child, a flesh-and-blood human being, whose entry into the world will be witnessed by many.”
“They still may not believe it,” he said jadedly.
“Oh, Robert,” she cried in frustration. “How can they not, if they see the babe being born with their own two eyes?”
“They will find a way.” He took her hand and idly fingered her wedding ring. “People will believe what they want to believe, my darling, however unsupported those beliefs might be. And the Protestants will never accept, however convincing the proof, that their God would take our side.”
“But God belongs not to them alone,” she protested. “He is everybody’s God, and their bigotry against Catholics is a direct violation of Christ’s teachings. So, why should the Lord choose to support them over us?”
“Personally, I do not believe the Lord takes sides,” he said, letting go her hand so he could drape his arm across her shoulders. “We are all his children, are we not? And, to be truthful, I have my doubts the Heavenly Father takes as much personal interest in human affairs as we might suppose.”
Maggie stiffened and slid him a scornful glare. “How can you utter such hypocrisies? Of course God takes an interest in human affairs. Did you not just say yourself that we are His children? What kind of father takes no interest in his offspring?”
“I cannot speak for God,” Robert said, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I only know that if the human race was my creation, I would have disowned the whole lot long before now.”
Maggie tsked and crossed her arms. “If that is true, then I say it is a very good thing you are not God.”
He let out a laugh, gave her a good-natured jostle, and kissed the top of her head. “’Tis a very good thing indeed, Rosebud. For I would no sooner wish to be in God’s shoes than I would wish to be in your father’s.”
They said little to each other for the remainder of the journey, mostly so Maggie could rest. Once they reached Holywell, secured lodgings, and had a meal and a nap, they set off toward the shrine.
Despite all the trials of the past two years, Robert had not forgotten the Virgin Mary’s warning—how could he, especially now that Maggie was pregnant and so sure the child was a boy? He nevertheless was started when, while passing through the shrine’s garden on the way to the spring, he was confronted by what he interpreted as an omen: a statue of the Madonna with the Baby Jesus seated upon her thigh.
Stopping dead in his tracks, he began to sweat, despite the gloomy sky and cool breeze. As he stood there, staring in wonder at the Blessed Virgin’s serene expression, he began to tingle all over. His senses sharpened. The colors of the garden seemed to brighten; the perfume of the flowers was suddenly stronger; the birdsong in the trees grew louder; and he could taste the crisp air on his lips.
Then, a ring of soft golden light appeared around the Madonna’s head. She lifted her face to meet his gaze. Stunned, awed, and afraid, he fell to his knees and joined his hands in an attitude of prayer.
Beside him, Maggie asked in a tone of concern, “What are you doing?”
He was as transfixed by the Madonna’s docile gaze as he’d been in Italy. “Do you not see her looking at me?”
“Looking at you? Are you joking? She is looking at the Baby Jesus on her lap.”
He knew then that Maggie did not see what he saw. Apparently, the vision was meant for his eyes alone.
Then, the statue spoke to him without moving her lips: “The child your wife now carries is the one you will be asked to give up. You must make the sacrifice when asked to do so. If you refuse, you will lose both your sons. If you obey, they both shall live to old age.”
Robert began to tremble. This could not be happening, and yet he knew that it was. The proof was not merely in what he heard and saw, it was also in how he felt. It was as if his soul had ascended to heaven while his knees remained on the ground.
“Please, I beg of you. Do not ask this of me.”
“To whom are you speaking?”
He could hear Maggie’s voice like a distant cry, could sense her standing there, just outside the blissful bubble enveloping him. It was like she existed in one world and he and Mother Mary in another.
He addressed himself to the Madonna. “Why me? Why us? Why our son?
“As a test of your faith,” the Blessed Virgin said serenely. “As are all things in the kingdom of men.”
At that, the protective bubble burst, Robert returned to earth, and the statue resumed its stationary form.
Beside him, Maggie was near to hysterics. “What in the name of God is going on? Who were you talking to? You are frightening me. If this is your idea of a jest, I must tell you I am not the least bit diverted.”
Her voice cracked as she said the words. When he looked at her, he saw, through the blur of tears, that she was overwrought. Looking away, he lowered his gaze and covered his face. How could he tell her what he’d seen and what he’d been told? How could he explain that which defied explanation? If he admitted the statue had spoken to him, she would think he’d lost his reason.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hands and climbed to his feet. Then, trying to make nothing of it, he shrugged and said, “I was merely praying.”
Maggie, hands on her hips, scowled at him reproachfully. “Praying, you say? Well, I do not believe you. It looked very much to me as though you were talking to that statue—and that you believed the Blessed Virgin was speaking to you in return.”
Robert swallowed and licked his lips. “If I owned that she was, would you believe me?”
“Of course I would,” she said, raising her voice. “What cause would I have to doubt you?”
“You would not think me mad?”
“No, Robert. I would think you had experienced a miracle.” She threw out her arms, raised her face to the sky, and began to spin around. “For are we not in a place of miracles?”
He went to her, took hold of one of her outstretched wrists, and led her to a cement bench under an arbor at the edge of the garden. The arbor, covered in an abundance of white roses, smelled strongly of their perfume.
Much as he wished to protect her from the truth, he had to tell her what little he knew. Like it or not, the day would come when God would claim their son, and she would be better prepared to face that moment if she knew what he knew.
He spoke slowly and carefully, his stomach in knots. “She appeared to me once before, when I was in Scotland. She told me I would be called upon one day to give up a son, as she was called to give up hers. The sacrifice, she explained, would be for the greater good of mankind, but beyond that, she did not illume. I thought at the time she meant wee Jamie; that he would die, perhaps from the engraftment. Now, however, I know that is not what she meant.”
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sp; It took a moment for his words to sink in, whereupon she cried, “No! Not my baby. I will not give him up.”
The pain in her eyes was breaking his heart. He struggled to remain strong and composed. “I fear you must, dearest, one way or another.”
She sniffed and blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“She said if we give him up, he will live to be old.”
“And if we should refuse?” Her lip trembled as she said it.
Unable to bear her gaze, Robert looked away and said very softly, “He will not survive the year.”
Maggie put her face in her hands and began to weep. “I do not understand. Why would God ask this of us?”
Robert put his arm around her, pulled her against him, and held her close. “To test our faith, much the way he tested Abraham’s.”
Lifting her face, Maggie regarded him with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Oh, Robert. Perhaps things are not as bleak as they seem. For God stayed Abraham’s hand in the end, did he not? So, perhaps that is what he means to do in our case, too.”
Robert regarded her solemnly. “Pray, do not hold out hope for an acquittal, my darling. If the Lord has no such plan, you will only invite upon yourself additional heartache. Better to accept our fate at face value and trust that God knows best. Is that not the fastest road to peace?”
Maggie sat there a long while, staring down at her hands and saying nothing. At length, she spoke, though her eyes remained downcast. “There is something else I do not understand. Why did the Blessed Virgin appear to you and not to me? I have prayed to her each and every day for the past three months. How often do you ask for her intercession?”
“More often than you realize,” he said softly, “for I pray the Rosary almost daily.”
“Of course,” she said with a sigh. “With your mother’s pearl rosary, which displays the Immaculate Heart of Mary instead of the crucifix.”
“Indeed,” he confirmed, “speaking of which…should we not proceed to the well and say our prayers? If we do not, we will have made a very long journey in vain.”
She looked at him now with watery eyes and tear-stained cheeks. As he brushed the moisture from her face, she said with the glimmer of a smile, “Not in vain, Robert, for we have come to ask that our child be born alive and well, and now know that he shall be. I do still wish, however, to do what we came here to do. First, though, I want to say a special prayer to the Blessed Virgin.”
Leaving on the bench, she walked to the statue and knelt down in the very spot he had occupied during the vision.
His heart swelled with admiration and affection as he watched her bow her head and make the sign of the cross. Then, she said, not the Ave Maria, as he’d expected, but the Prayer of St. Germanus to Our Lady.
“O you, who are, after God, my powerful protectress and my true consolation in this world, you who are the celestial dew that sweetens my pains; the light of my soul when plunged in darkness, my guide in my journeys, my strength in my weaknesses, my treasure in poverty, the remedy of my wounds, my joy in all my sorrows, my refuge in all dangers, the hope of my life and of my salvation, deign to hear my prayers, to take an interest in my woes, and to show me that compassion which peculiarly belongs to the Mother of a God Who entertains such love and goodness towards men.
“He is their Father, and He has constituted you their Mother. Ah! Place me then amongst the number of your dearest children, and obtain for me from God all the graces which you know to be necessary for the salvation of my soul.”
When she reached the end, he said “amen” with her before going to where she knelt. So touched was he by her self-sacrificing appeal that tears streamed from his eyes. After helping her to her feet, he took both her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes, which were as moist as his own.
“Maggie, my dearest,” he said, straining to push the words through his tear-thickened throat, “you are the loveliest, sweetest, most generous person I have ever had the pleasure to know, and I consider myself very fortunate to have you for my wife.” As he bent to kiss her, he felt again like he was floating in a golden bubble of joy. Then, he understood what he was feeling: Love, pure and true, which was the holiest emotion in all of creation.
Chapter Fourteen
All was calm and quiet from late autumn 1687 to the spring of 1688. Then, all hell broke loose.
The trouble began with the king’s order to have the Declaration of Indulgence, which suspended the Test Act and granted freedom to worship to all denominations, read from the pulpits of every Anglican Church two consecutive Sundays in May.
Seven Protestant bishops—believing the suspension of laws without Parliamentary approval exceeded the king’s authority—presented to His Majesty a petition delineating their objections to his order. The king went ballistic, called the petition seditious, and refused to withdraw the order.
“You will obey my command to have the declaration read in your churches,” James told them, his face red with fury, “or be tried for your defiance.”
The bishops went away, but did not back down. After much deliberation, His Majesty instructed the Lord Chancellor to carry out his threats. The bishops were brought before the Privy Council, charged with their offenses, and sent to the Tower to await their trial.
The monarch’s plan to publicly disgrace the clerics backfired. Gliding along on the Thames on their barge, the bishops were cheered by the multitudes of Protestants who’d swarmed both banks of the river in sympathy and support.
King James, needless to say, was fit to be tied.
Two days later, the queen went into labor. Robert and Maggie declined the invitation to attend the birth, partly because they needed no proof of the queen’s condition and partly because there would be plenty of other witnesses (the queen dowager, privy councilors, and several Protestant ladies of quality, among them), but mostly because Maggie, too, had started labor.
The pains came on at first light and were steadily growing more intense and closer together. Soon, Robert would need to move her to the birthing chair.
Biting his lip, he gazed at the chair with growing dread. What was keeping Gemma? He’d sent Duncan (who’d finally appeared) to fetch her an hour ago.
The chair, which Gemma had delivered a week ago, was hard, wooden, and straight-backed with a horse-shoe shaped hole in the seat. To Robert’s eye, the odious contraption resembled a commode in want of its chamber pot. It could in no way be comfortable to sit upon, especially whilst enduring agonizing contractions.
Turning back to Maggie, he did his best to compose his features. She had her hand on her swollen belly and a pained expression on her face. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. His heart ached to see it. All this suffering to bring forth a child they would be forced to give up in less than a year. It seemed so pointless and so cruel. Still, he could accept the forfeiture of the child with more ease than he could accept the loss of his wife.
Please, God. Let her survive this. Accursed sinner though I be, ’twould be too punishing to take them both from me.
When the next contraction started, Maggie moaned and squeezed his hand hard enough to be painful. He did not complain or attempt to pry his hand from her grip. He must grin and bear it, for his discomforts were nothing to hers.
The contraction passed and she relaxed her grip.
“If I could, I would bear the pain for you,” he said as he mopped her forehead with cool water. “I hope you know that.”
She laughed, then grimaced as if experiencing a sudden cramp. “I only know that if childbirth were the province of men, the human race would have ceased to exist long ago.”
His heart leapt at the sounds of the front door opening and closing. A minute or two later, Mrs. Crosse came into the room with a leather satchel. Thank God, he thought, relieved. Thank God.
Gemma gave him a smile as she came to the bedside. “How does she do?”
“Well enough,” he replied, “under the circumstances.”
“How far
apart are her pains?”
“Not far—and getting closer and more distressing each time they come on.”
She gave him a tight smile. “That is just as it should be.”
Her expression grew more sober as she set her bag on the bed and came around to where he sat. Turning to Maggie, she set her hand lightly on her swollen belly. “How do you get on, my dear friend?”
“Well enough, I suppose,” Maggie said softly. “Robert has been my Rock of Gibraltar.”
“Has he? Then, consider yourself lucky, for not many husbands possess the patience to attend their wives at such a time.”
“Robert does. He is as patient and kind as the day is long.”
Though flattered by her compliment, Robert felt ill-at-ease being discussed as though he were not in the room.
“That is good,” Gemma said, throwing a glance his way. “He will need to be, for it may be hours yet before the little one puts in an appearance. I shall have a better idea of when that might be once I have checked your progress.” She turned to Robert. “I doubt you will wish to be present during my examinations.”
Robert’s heart flared in protest. He did not want to leave Maggie’s side, even for a moment. “Why should I not wish to remain? ’Tis not as if she has aught to hide from her husband.”
“Even so,” said Gemma, “a lady’s parts take on a different appearance during the birthing process—an appearance that could put her husband off his duty to her later.”
“I love her too much to ever go off her,” he insisted, “regardless of what I see today.”
Gemma looked to Maggie. “It is up to you, dearest. Do you wish him to go or stay whilst I check your progress?”
“He may stay, if he wishes.” Maggie, wearing a small smile, looked his way. “But perhaps you might be good enough to avert your eyes.”
“Of course,” he said. “I shall do whatever you wish, my darling.”
The apothecary took Maggie’s hand. “How very fortunate you are to have such an accommodating husband.”
